I Won't Stay Very Long
by undercrown
Summary: Cas, Dean, and my headcanon about how Heaven works in Supernatural.


_so I won't say it at all  
and I won't stay very long  
—_from "Futile Devices," by Sufjan Stevens

Eternal life. That's the lure, isn't it? Mortals and angels alike are encouraged by this: follow orders, follow the plan, and you will receive your reward.

Heaven. It means so much to both our species. Humans think that each will have their mansion, according to their tastes; angels are born of it, and cast across the universe, told to watch Creation. We are given one niche, one corner, and we're told to mark how each seam melds into another. If we watch well, if we see all we are meant to, then we are welcomed back into the fold.

Of course, if we die in our lonesome edge, then we simply cease. We are encouraged not to die.

But you humans—you truly think that Heaven is for you, don't you? You think that our Father saw your despair and, loving you, created a rest, an end to suffering, a place without fear or pain or sorrow. You build monuments to Him. You sing hymns unto His name. You praise Him for sparing Isaac; you thank Him for taking His Son, instead.

You do all this for love. You do all this because there is no equation in your holy books to describe the energy within a soul; there is no diagram to explain how to harness it, how to maintain an army of unfeeling algorithms with it.

The one who should have loved you best has used you most. How could you know?

But I knew. And I said nothing.

They do not last forever, though, souls. They fade and die. All the might of Heaven cannot master Death, and entropy is his vengeance upon our perfect trap. One by one, the cells of Heaven collapse, releasing a final sigh. I have listened to the last Neanderthal as her Heaven collapsed, and still she sang true; Orpheus's last note struck my being, and an answering keen vibrated through my Grace. Even when I was stationed on Earth, some souls could reach me, intertwine their melody with mine, and so dissolve into the universe.

But most souls whisper. Their Heaven is small, more cage than manse, sustained more by Heaven's terrible design than by their force of will. I imagine that, had I a soul, it would be one such. There is no shame in this. If I had no higher purpose, then rebuilding the walls of Heaven would be a noble end to me. I have torn down so many.

But he has always been my mission, my cause. Before life began beneath the waves, before roots began to dig beneath the earth, the knowledge of him dwelt in me. For millennia I watched the Earth, awaiting the Righteous Man. Hearing the first language, I wondered what words his voice would shape; seeing the first works of art, I wondered what his hands would build.

I do not mean that I spent the first eternity of my life thinking only of him: I did not. But there is a lot of downtime involved in watching humanity, and even angels need something to occupy their minds. For me, it was him.

And then, oh, the order was given! We were finally, finally sent to war, finally to seek through the ruins of Perdition for the mortal on whom Providence depended. My brothers fought for decades even as we lost decades of my brothers. Yet no sacrifice was too great, too precious, for he had always been more important than we sentient equations.

When I found him, he was flaying a child.

Laughing.

The fury, the agony, pulsed through my Grace, and before I could restrain myself I laid a hand on him to smite him from existence. My Grace flowed through him, burning through the dark corners, and even as his face twisted into a rictus of pain he began to sob. His knife fell. He mewled, he cried, but he did not fight me, did not twist away.

At last, I heard what he was saying: "Thank you, thank you, thank you, please—please!"

But I had already withdrawn my hand. "Please." Taking a step toward me, the Righteous Man turned his back on his victim. Without his thought to sustain it, the rack faded, releasing the child. As he fell to his knees before me, I watched as the girl stumbled, saw the knife, and turned to her tormentor. She sprang in the same moment that he grabbed my ankle, and I found myself between the two. I gathered her in my arms and, even as she screamed, pressed my lips against her forehead. The tatters left of someone's daughter burned brightly and were gone.

"Why?" Grabbing his shoulders, I shook out my wings. "Why her?" I had no answer. "Why not me?" We flew.

Eventually, he stopped asking, stopped struggling. My brothers still fought on, surrounding us, but the demons knew they had lost. Even before we broke the barriers of Hell, many of us had begun to hum, and some to sing. We won, we won, and he would know salvation!

Once free, a herald cried out, "Dean Winchester is saved."

And so, my part was played. I was to fade again, watching the Earth turn, fighting battles as I was required. But I stayed as Raphael reformed his body, smoothing out the clay of Michael's vessel. When the archangel knitted xyr brow, I noted that only the mark of my hands remained. I left, not wanting to know what xy would determine from this.

The second eternity of my life began the moment I touched his soul. What more was I to do? How pointless is a weapon without a target!

Why should I not speak with him? No one had forbidden me. So I went to him, wanting to answer his questions. (Questions, I would find out, that he no longer remembered: Raphael had purged the knowledge of me. At the time, I thought it mere punishment; now, I recognize it as spite.) "Don't be afraid," I whispered, and the ground shook beneath him.

I gave up, resigned myself to never knowing him.

And then he called to me.

When I asked permission to take a vessel, Zachariah scoffed. Xy did not understand why an angel, even one as superfluous as Thursday's, would want to cater to a human's whim. They had already chosen Uriel to guide him. Why waste two seraphs' time? But Michael saw into me. Xy said yes.

I don't know why this surprised me. If anyone could understand longing, it would be Michael.

Jimmy Novak was easy to find. Each angel keeps track of the bloodline that best suits their frequency. He was easier still to manipulate. We also keep track of our vessels' weaknesses. We are not overly kind, we angels, but I thought at the time that there was a plan, a purpose.

I guess Jimmy wouldn't care, though, that I regret it now. He's been in Heaven even longer than Dean has. I don't imagine there are many threads of him left.

If you are reading this coda to the Winchester Gospels, then it is likely you are already familiar with the work of the prophet Chuck. You already know that he once more raised his knife to me, that I would once more try to smite him (though this time with my borrowed fists). But more than that, you know that I loved him, that I chose him over my brothers, my Father. You know that I died for him.

You may not know that I betrayed him, but I did. By staying silent, by letting him die, by allowing any reaper to take his soul. I should have warned him, warned them all; or healed his wounds, given him unending youth; or fought his reaper, even knowing that Death comes to those who harm his children. I should have done something. But even now, so many years later, I know not what.

Had it only been a matter of saving Dean, I would have stormed the gates of Heaven. But how could I tear him from his brother? Trap it might be, but Heaven would let them rest. They deserved that, and so much more that I would never be able to give them.

So I wandered. For years, I walked the Earth with my head cocked, listening. I knew he would not leave me with just a whisper, but I often wondered what his last song would be. I decided that "Ramble On" was most likely. I played it every day. Otherwise, I feared that I would forget my vigil, would miss his heartsong.

But then, it happened: I heard Sam for one last time.

Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood, who I had called abomination, who was my friend—he was gone. Sam was gone. Gone. It had never occurred to me that they would not wink out together.

Dean was alone. For the first time in a thousand years, he was alone.

My wings were gone, my Grace a candle's flame. I could not fly to him, I did not know if Heaven would part for me, if my brothers would spare my life. But, oh, he was alone, and at last he needed me.

I collapsed to borrowed knees. "Father," I said, and my voice was dust. "Father, please. One last gift, please, please. I know I deserve nothing, have earned nothing, but please, he deserves so much more than what we've given him."

He did not answer, but He never has. Not for me, not in words. But, oh, the strength, the warmth, the love, said just as clearly as any Word that all I'd ever had to do was ask.

"Thank you."

I shook out my wings and flew. Again, my brothers surrounded me as I sought him, but now all they voiced were questions: _You're alive? Where have you been? Why are you here?_

I did not answer, and they quieted as we grew closer to the Righteous Man's soul. Those who had served under me left, refusing to witness my choice. The others watched, unsure, confused, as I picked up the grain of sand that was left.

"You came," he said. Even this small effort diminished his glow. "I waited."

"I am sorry, Dean. I'm here now."

"I know."

"Would you like to go somewhere?"

"Home." The spark dimmed, then flashed again. "Home."

"I don't know where that is."

I cannot be sure, but I think he laughed.


End file.
